Unexpected
by sinceyoufellinlovewithme
Summary: Unlike most aristocrats of their time, the Earl and Countess of Grantham have shared a bed for most of their marriage. But there have been nights when Robert's presence was unexpected...
1. 1890, Pt 1

AN: I've been enjoying for years, first as a Harry Potter fan, and now with Downton. I finally decided to try writing a couple fics myself, and this is my first. I'm planning maybe five chapters here, one for each of the nights I'll be describing.

* * *

Cora Crawley woke to the sensation of weight at her waist and warmth at her back. Blinking, she slowly realized what it was: her husband of five months, Robert, Viscount Downton, had fallen asleep with his arm wrapped around her.

They had made love last night, as they often did. They had a duty to fulfill, an heir to produce—she was growing increasingly anxious at the threat of failure in this regard; she'd had her fifth monthly since the wedding just last week—and he seemed to take pleasure in her body. She did not mind this; she even enjoyed it, and her husband was certainly gentle with her.

But there was a bittersweet sadness to these evenings. She would convince herself that Robert was _in _love with her and loved more than just her body—a few times, she'd even been bold enough, or foolish enough, to whisper an "I love you"—but he never voiced any declaration of his own. She had dreamed for months of falling asleep in his arms afterwards, and of waking up next to him the next morning, but each time, he would do as he'd done on their wedding night—an occasion, she refused to admit, that had broken her heart.

Robert would lie with her in his arms a short while, and then he would murmur, "Good night, my darling," kiss her softly, and slip off to his own room, leaving her to sleep alone. She hated his departures more than anything else in her new life—more than the homesickness that would engulf her at odd moments, more than the barbed remarks from her mother-in-law, more than the discomforts of the drafty Abbey on chilly English nights. Being left to lie here alone was a cold reminder that he did not love her and that their marriage was nothing more than a business deal: much-needed cash for him and his estate, a title and a new status for her.

And so it was with a breathless joy that she realized he had spent the night with a firm grip around her waist. She gasped, turning over to face him, and he awakened at her movement.

"Robert," she said softly as he blinked in the morning light, disoriented to find himself in a different bedroom. "Robert!" she said again, more forceful this time in her excitement.

"Oh, Cora!" he exclaimed, suddenly fully awake. He sat up quickly. "Please excuse me—I didn't mean—I must have been more tired last night than I thought—"

_I will not cry, _she told herself firmly. "You mean…you didn't intend to stay?" Her voice, devoid of any emotion, sounded like someone else's. She knew he'd seen tears in her eyes far too many times in the last few months, and she knew it marked her as an American who completely lacked the control necessary for a true viscountess.

He shook his head, smiling at her. "Of course not." He kissed her cheek as though he had not just broken her heart again. "I'll go so you can ring for Moore and have your breakfast."

He tossed the covers off and left, but she did not ring for Moore. Instead, she rolled over and buried her face in her pillow, drowning in the tears that so perfectly demonstrated her unfitness.


	2. 1890, Pt 2

"Good night, m'lady. Please do ring if you need anything."

"Thank you, Moore." Cora eased herself back against the pillows as her maid drew the covers up over her legs for her. "I'm all right."

Miss Moore nodded. "Yes, but please don't hesitate, my lady."

Cora smiled. She had been saddened to learn that the maid she had loved from her adolescence in America was unwilling to emigrate, but she'd grown very fond of the older Englishwoman presented to her at her marriage. Moore was almost motherly—certainly more so than her new mother-in-law—and it was a comfort to see her at the beginning and end of every day. The maid was the only person at Downton who seemed to care for her beyond her money—ironic, she mused, considering the maid was paid. But then, weren't her husband and the rest of his family? She'd essentially paid him to marry her, paid the Crawleys for her new title.

It wasn't that Cora found that idea degrading in itself. She'd fully understood the plan when she and her parents had left for England last year, and she'd fully endorsed it. It had only become a problem when she'd fallen in love with the Viscount of Downton, fallen head over heels for the man she'd begun to think of as a fairy tale prince who she convinced herself would soon love her, too. But, of course, he didn't.

"Now, will there be anything else? Will you be comfortable?"

Cora nodded, trying to assuage the concerned look on her maid's face. "I'll be fine." She had gone riding with Robert, who had casually commented on the lack of riding in America. Her determination to prove him wrong with a demonstration of skills she did not have had ended with her landing hard in the mud as her horse ran off without her—laughter, she could have sworn, in its whinny. The fall had brought on the tears she knew he despised, and he had carried her back to the house, almost speechless with anger that had narrowed his mouth into a thin, hard line. He had sat with her attentively and silently as they waited for a doctor, who told her she had been lucky to break nothing, but she had a sprained knee and a badly bruised hip that he wanted her off as much as possible in the coming week. The doctor had given her something for the pain, and then Robert had left her to rest. She had seen no one all day but Miss Moore, who had brought her dinner to her room and fussed over her all evening.

She lay down as the maid extinguished the lamp, cursing her stupidity this afternoon as every nerve on her right side protested the movement. Since awakening from her earlier rest, she'd felt bruises blooming from her head to her toes, and she had decided she never wanted to move again if she could help it. She whimpered slightly as she settled into a semi-comfortable position on her left side and squeezed her eyes shut, expecting to sleep even less than usual.

And then she heard the last thing she expected to hear…the door opening, accompanied by Robert's voice. "Cora?" he said, stepping into her room with a candle.

Good God, was he insane? She knew she had a duty to him, knew she'd sold herself just as he'd sold his family's title, but this was ridiculous. He'd seen her fall, he'd heard the doctor, he knew she was in pain and hadn't been well enough to come down for dinner…

"What on earth are you doing?" she snapped, suddenly angry. He'd left her alone—what he was best at—all afternoon, and the first she was seeing of him was his arrival to have sex with her when she could barely move. "You know very well that I can't—"

But she sat up as she said it and gasped when she moved.

"Oh, please don't get up!" he exclaimed, talking over her. "Lie still." He stepped into the room and approached the bed as she gingerly eased herself back down. "How are you?"

"Robert, I can't possibly do this tonight," she said.

He stared at her for a moment in the dim candlelight, confusion on his face, until realization suddenly spread across his features. "Oh no! Good heavens, do you think that's why I'm here?"

She said nothing. Why else would he be in here?

"I wanted to see how you were," he said, his voice suddenly timid.

"_Now?"_

He shrugged, a gesture she'd come to realize meant he was embarrassed. "Well, you slept this afternoon, and then your maid was here, and I–I didn't want to just barge in, and…" He trailed off. "But how _are _you feeling?"

She was suddenly warmed by the thought that he had wanted to see her. Moore _had _been with her most of the evening, and he had always been shy in her maid's presence. "Awful," she said. "I feel awful. Like…well, like I fell hard off a horse." She chuckled softly, and he gently sat down on the bed, setting the candle on the nightstand. "I'm black and blue all over."

He reached across to stroke her hair. "I'm so sorry, darling." How she wished for her heart's sake that he wouldn't call her that, but how she loved it when he did. "Can I do anything?" A bit late to ask that, she thought, but late was better than never.

"No. I'll be all right. But thank you." She chewed her lip in the following silence, embarrassed as she recalled his earlier displeasure. "Robert?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"What?" He froze, then withdrew his hand. "What for?"

"I'm sorry for this afternoon—for being foolish, so that I fell."

"Cora…" He was staring down at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"I know you were angry with me," she continued.

"_No_," he said firmly. "No, I was _not_. I was angry with myself—_furious_ for letting you be hurt, for pushing you into something that hurt you. For not taking better care of you."

"Oh," she said. He wanted to take care of her?

"Please don't apologize. I'm sorry I let this happen to you—I'm sorry I caused it."

"It wasn't your fault I fell. You didn't make me run off with the horse the way I did," she said. "And…I am sorry I cried." She hoped there wasn't enough light for him to see the blush creeping into her cheeks.

"My word, Cora, don't be sorry for that. You were hurt and you were frightened—"

"And American," she finished. "You think I cry easily because I'm American." The shadows over their faces made her willing to give words to what she'd never say in the drawing room in the light of day.

"I don't think that at all," he said, genuine surprise in his voice. "I think you cry because–because you aren't very happy here. When we married I wanted to make you happy, and I wanted to protect you, and sometimes I'm not sure I'm very good at either. I'm not trying to be a bad husband—I'm trying _not_ to be—but sometimes I think I am." He said all this very fast.

"You're not a bad husband, Robert," she said. And he wasn't, truly—it wasn't his fault that he didn't love her, and the rules of that game had been clear before they'd married. She'd been the one who hadn't had sense enough to leave her heart out of this. "You wouldn't be in here right now if you were. You've always been very kind to me."

"But you're not happy at Downton."

She considered for a moment. "I'm happy when I'm with you."

He seemed to consider this in silence and reached out to stroke her hair again. She closed her eyes at the sensation.

"Cora?"

"Mmm?"

"May I…what if I stayed with you tonight?" Her eyes shot open, but he wasn't done. "In case you need something. You'd have to get up to ring for Moore. I know it troubled you last time, but I'll worry if you're alone."

She was not sure which part of this speech was more surprising: that he wanted to stay with her, that he thought she had minded the morning two weeks earlier when she had woken to find him in her bed, or that he would worry about her. "Of course," she said. "Of course you can stay. But it didn't trouble me last time!"

He studied her face. "It didn't? You seemed so startled when you woke up."

"I _was_ startled. Because you've never seemed to want to stay the night. And then you seemed to regret it so much. But…I did like it." Her voice dropped to such a quiet tone on her last sentence that she could barely hear it herself.

"I regretted it because I thought you didn't want it. I don't disturb your sleep?"

"I slept better with you here." She was thankful for the hundredth time tonight that it was dark. It was so much easier to speak to him when the lights were out and they were not constrained in the costumes of the viscount and his bride. It felt almost natural to confess to each other here, with her in a thin nightdress and him in his pajamas and no threat of interruption.

"I think perhaps I did as well." He blew out the candle and then slipped in under the covers and lay down, moving slowly in what she realized was care not to jostle the mattress any more than necessary.

"Could you–could you move closer? I'm too bruised to be touched," she whispered, wishing she weren't too sore to want to be held, "but…I think I'd be more comfortable if I could lean against you." He moved closer, and a moan escaped her lips as she inched into position to lay her head against his chest.

"My poor darling," he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Promise you'll wake me if you need anything, anything at all."

She nodded, thinking that she had everything—or nearly everything—she could possibly need.


	3. 1891

AN: Wow, thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, or even just read my first chapters! This is my first fic, and it's been so encouraging to know that people are enjoying it. I also had no idea what an international place this was - I had always assumed that most of the readers and writers in the English section were American, British, Australian, Canadian, etc., so it was very neat to look at my story stats and see my readers were literally all over the world! I never expected to have the opportunity to write for people as far away as Peru, Finland, Portugal, Liberia, or Indonesia, and certainly not all at once! (As a travel nerd, this is a very cool thing for me.)

Reviews do mean a lot, so if you are so inclined, please drop me a line at the end. (I feel really guilty now for all those months that I lurked on this site and never left a review - I will definitely do it in the future!) :-)

Also, bonus points to anyone who can remember who Viscountess Branksome is.

* * *

"I trust you found our English Christmas festivities agreeable, Lady Downton," the Viscount Lonsdale said, taking a sip of his wine.

"Of course, Lord Lonsdale. The Abbey was particularly beautiful in December," Cora replied. The reality, of course, was that she had not realized how much she would miss the bright lights of New York, the pumpkin pie and the familiar treats of her childhood, the late-November Thanksgiving celebration that kicked off the whole season, and, of course, her family. Nor had December seemed quite the same without the soft glow of her father's menorah in a window. But she knew it wouldn't do to mention any of that now—especially not the latter.

The new year of 1891 had arrived a few days earlier, and this luncheon was the last event of the shooting party that had gathered at Downton for the holiday. Cora was more than ready to see the visitors off—at nearly two months pregnant, she found she tired easily. Yet a house full of company had made it easier to hide her symptoms from her distracted in-laws. She and Robert had agreed to keep the news to themselves for the time being. The thought of a baby—perhaps even an heir—so delighted them both that they could not yet bear to share with the world a secret that felt so sacred.

"Is the celebration very different here?" Viscount Lonsdale asked.

She almost laughed: she'd arrived in England more than two years ago now, but she still could not get over how very foreign the country seemed. In her imagination it had been a smaller version of the United States, only with titles, older buildings, and different accents, and she'd been stunned how wrong she'd been. She was beginning to suspect that she'd _always_ be culturally wrong-footed here. "The menu was different," she said. "And a few of the carols were new to me. I think being in the countryside makes it feel very different, too—I'm used to Christmas in New York."

He smiled. "What did you find you liked best?"

But she missed his question as a sudden, sharp pain shot across her stomach, and she gasped.

"Lady Downton, are you quite all right?"

"I–I think so," she said after a moment. It had gone as quickly as it had come, and she did not feel the slightest bit odd now. "I'm sorry; I don't know what came over me. You were saying?" She gave him a dazzling smile, hoping to distract him. It worked, and the conversation continued on.

The man she could not distract, she realized, was Robert. He'd had at least one nervous, protective eye on her since she'd told him her suspicions last month, and he was, as usual, more in tune to her than he was to his own lunch partner. He was now studying her carefully from across the table, and her mouthed, "I'm fine," had done nothing to remove the concern from his face.

By the time the meal had ended, Cora had nearly forgotten the incident. She rose and followed her mother-in-law and the other ladies from the dining room, knowing the men would follow shortly.

She took a seat in the drawing room next to Viscountess Branksome—she'd grown to like the other young woman quite a bit over the last few days—as she listened to Lady Grantham expertly guide the conversation.

And then she felt it again. An odd clenching in her stomach, punctuated by another stab of pain. She sucked in her breath and received an odd look from Viscountess Branksome. Then it was gone, and she breathed out, only to feel it return with a new strength—it felt this time as though something in her had been quickly ripped in two. She cried out, and then felt it settle into a dull ache.

Every head in the room turned to face her. "Cora?" her mother-in-law said. Violet's expression was an attempt at concern that looked more like a grimace, but her voice was dripping with irritation and disapproval.

"I'm sorry," Cora said quickly, knowing that something was wrong, desperately wrong. "I feel–a bit lightheaded–the heat from the fire," she said, casting about for an excuse. "I think I may go lie down. Please excuse me."

"I may step upstairs for a moment, too," Viscountess Branksome said as Cora stood. "These gloves—they're new, and a bit smaller than I'd thought. I think I'll change…" And she followed Cora from the room.

"Here, take my arm if you need it," the other woman said as soon as they stepped into the hall. "I didn't want you walking up alone, unwell and in your condition."

"Is it that obvious?" Cora took her arm, grateful for something to steady her as her stomach muscles seized again.

The viscountess smiled gently. "I wouldn't say obvious. I doubt the Countess of Grantham has noticed. I'm not sure noticing others is her strong suit."

Cora heard her remark only distantly. _It's nothing, _she told herself. _Just a stomach cramp. You've overexerted yourself, and you need to lie down._ Yet her heart told her that wasn't the case.

She let Viscountess Branksome lead her up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom, where she sank onto her bed and asked the other woman to ring for Miss Moore before she returned to the drawing room.

Miss Moore had barely had time to arrive, call out to a passing footman to fetch the doctor, and help Cora into a comfortable nightdress when Robert came bursting in.

"Cora!" He was out of breath, as though he had run up the stairs two at a time. "What's wrong? Viscountess Branksome told me you weren't well—"

"I told her not to make a fuss," Cora said, half to herself. Of course, the viscountess probably hadn't taken that to mean what it really had: _please leave my husband out of this._

"Never mind that; tell me what's wrong." He sat down on the bed, and she saw her own fear reflected in her husband's eyes.

"I'm not sure anything's wrong," she said, forcing herself to breathe calmly and willing it to be true. "My stomach hurts a bit, so the doctor's coming to see me. I really think it's quite all right, though." She was aware of how feeble this must sound to him, and how feeble it sounded to her, as she lay in bed, curled up against the growing intensity of the pain.

"But Cora, what if the baby—"

"Oh God," she murmured softly. She had felt that awful tearing sensation again, but there was something more this time: a rush of liquid, and she sat up, terrified, only to look down to see the blood suddenly staining the sheets in a rapidly growing circle beneath her. Blood. _Her blood._

_"No!"_ she heard herself cry out—a harsh, strangled sound.

_"Cora—"_ She heard the anguish in his voice, and the humiliation of his presence only multiplied her horror.

"Go!" she shouted. "Just go!"

"Cora, please—" He reached for her, and she pulled away.

"No!"

"My lord, you'll make her more agitated. The doctor will be here soon," she heard Miss Moore say in a soothing tone as she drew him away and out of the bedroom.

* * *

"Cora's miscarried," Robert said to his parents later that day after the New Year's guests had departed and the doctor had gone. _Miscarried._ The word had a strange, sour taste to it, and his mouth did not seem to want to fit around it, as though he had accidentally tried to swallow a large bit of bone with his meat.

His father looked up sharply, but it was his mother who spoke. "What? She hasn't even been pregnant."

Of course she hadn't as far as his parents were concerned, but the sentence made him irrationally angry. How many veiled jabs had Cora heard from his mother in the last year about her fertility…

"Yes, she was," he said, swallowing his anger. This wasn't his mother's fault. "We hadn't told anyone, but she was. She would have delivered…" He trailed off, unable to finish with the words _this summer_. There would be no delivery.

"How is she?" his father said.

"I'm told she'll recover," he said. He cleared his throat in an attempt to hold off his own emotions. "I am going to go up and see her."

He found her propped against the pillows in bed, tears streaming down her face, her breathing the jagged sort that meant she'd been at this for some time. "Oh, Cora," he said softly, but her only response was a small shake of her head.

"How are you?" He took a seat on the side of the bed next to her and took her hand, quite literally: when he reached his hand out, she did not extend her own to grasp his, and he had to physically pick up her hand to wrap it in his own. She gave another small shake of her head and still said nothing.

He lifted her hand and kissed it. He was grieved for their child, yes, grieved beyond measure at the thought of the baby he had already grown to love. But his terror all afternoon had not been so much for their son or daughter, but for Cora. It was a cold thought, perhaps, but at their age, of course they would conceive again. Cora was what was irreplaceable—irreplaceable in his arms and in his heart, and the thought of living on without her frightened him more than anything ever had.

"Darling…" He brushed her hair back, but she responded with nothing but more tears. How he wished she would _say _something. "Can I hold you?" She shrugged, and he took that as an indication that he at least would not hurt her.

"Tell me if anything hurts," he said as he drew her slowly into his arms. It was, he realized, like holding a large doll—she made no movements on her own and did not snuggle up to him or bury her face in his neck as he expected. Yet she did cry harder, and as he leaned his head against hers, his tears mingled with her own.

* * *

By evening, Cora felt she had cried every tear she had, and they seemed an almost trivial response to the grief she felt. What she wanted to do was sleep, for days and weeks and months, until the world seemed normal again.

She expected Robert would return once more to tell her good night, and she dreaded it. She had wanted children for their own sake, and she had grown to love the small being inside of her with an intensity that had almost frightened her, but most of all she had wanted to give Robert children. She had wanted to produce an heir and a spare and go on to have further sons and daughters, so that she would fulfill her duty, secure Robert's line, and prove her worth to him. Perhaps, she had let herself think, he might love me if I give him a son.

She had known that almost a year of childlessness was in some way a disappointment to him, and she had been sure he'd think of her as a complete failure if that continued much longer. But now she was faced with a situation she hadn't considered. She was not merely slow to fall pregnant; she couldn't carry a child to term. Her body's decision to eject the life inside it seemed a far deeper failure than simply a refusal to create life in the first place.

And then there was how…_repulsive_ the whole thing had been. She had always been taught that men wanted no part in a woman's _issues_, and she had been told to be coy and euphemistic about her monthly courses even in front of her husband. Childbirth, and the unpleasantness that came with it, was a field reserved for women and doctors—her husband, she knew, should enter the room only after she had been washed and dressed and the sheets had been changed and the child was lying peacefully in her arms. So the thought that Robert not only _knew _she had failed but had witnessed the beginnings of her miscarriage, had seen the blood spreading out beneath her, was a humiliation that she was sure would seal her fate. He could never learn to love her. She could only hope that he did not hate her. The attention and regard she had received from him in the last few months, she knew, were over.

As she'd expected, he returned later that evening in his own bedclothes. He seemed relieved to see her sitting calmly, with no hint of the tears that had engulfed her today, but she could hear the worry in his voice when he spoke.

"How are you feeling tonight?" he asked.

"Well enough," she said. In truth, there was still a sharp pain in her stomach, and she was so weak from the loss of blood that she doubted she could walk across the room on her own, but if she told him that, he would be alarmed, and he would want to call the doctor back, and she would have to explain that it was normal, and that she would recover in the next few days, but that there was nothing to be done for it right now, and she simply did not have the energy for this conversation.

His forehead was still wrinkled with concern. "The doctor said you'd probably have pains all night. Is there anything I can—"

"No!" she snapped. "There's nothing! There's nothing you or anyone can do. I just wish you'd all _quit asking_!" She knew she was almost shouting, but she didn't care. It was what Moore had been asking all day, and it was what her father-in-law had asked when he'd come to see her, and hearing the question from Robert was one too many. It wasn't even so much the irritation of the repetition—although her nerves were raw today, and it _was _irritating. It was the answer. _No. No, there's nothing you can do. You can fetch me as many blankets and hot water bottles and drinks as you like, and you won't put my child back in my womb or ease the pain of his loss._

She choked back another sob, the first she'd felt in hours. "I'm sorry," she whispered after a moment, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her face with her hands to force back the tears. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so harsh. This is your loss, too."

"It's all right," he said softly.

She could not bear the shame of her failure in his presence any longer. "I think we should both just go to bed," she said. She turned off her bedside lamp, adjusted the pillows so she could lie flat, and lay down.

"Yes. You should rest." He took off his dressing gown and laid it on the chair.

She stared at him. "What are you doing?"

"Going to bed?" There was a question in his voice, as though he weren't sure what answer she was expecting to hear.

"In _here_?" she asked. But his intention could not have been clearer: he was pulling back the covers on the other side and sitting down.

"Of course in here. I've slept in here nearly every night since last summer." He gave her a small smile. "Since the day you fell off that blasted horse. Do you not want me to sleep here tonight? Would you be more comfortable if you had your bed to yourself?"

"No—I just…you don't _have _to sleep with me!" She could feel her face growing warm and hot tears gathering in her eyes. "Aren't you…aren't you disgusted with me?"

"_What?"_

"With my–_failure_. With the fact that I can't hold our child in my body. With the way my _useless _womb expels the baby we've longed for all year in a mess of blood in my bed." Her tears were flowing again, but she ignored them. "I'm useless to you in securing Downton, and I know that's what matters most. What good is my money if there's no heir?"

Through her tears, she saw Robert staring down at her, and his expression made him look almost ill. _Good,_ she thought. It was somehow calming to see him look as she knew he felt.

"Cora," he said, and she was almost comforted to hear the new harshness in his voice. He reached across and covered her mouth with a firm hand. "Do not ever, ever, _ever _say any of that ever again."

She stared at him, not comprehending, but he went on. "Not a _word_ of that is true. Nothing about you is useless, nothing is a failure, and nothing about you could ever disgust me." He lifted his hand to dry her tears with his thumb. "I'm ashamed I ever looked at you with an eye to securing this estate. I don't love you for what you've done for Downton. I love you for having the kindest, warmest heart I've ever encountered."

She gasped, and for a second she thought she might choke on her tears. What had he just said? She seized his arm. "You—you've never said that to me before. You've never said you loved me."

"Didn't you…know?" he asked, turning pale at the look on her face. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't think… How awful." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I do love you. Cora, I love every last inch of you." He went on to kiss the fresh tear at the corner of her eye, the damp tracks of tears on her cheeks, her quivering lips, her neck, her collarbone…and then he drew back the covers.

"Robert…"

"Shh." Slowly, he laid his hand at the base of her abdomen and gently stroked her stomach. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she could feel the muscles relaxing for the first time all day.

Her body was fully covered, and there was nothing sexual in his touch, but having his hand _there_, so near to the center of her failure and directly on top of her pain, made her feel as exposed as if she were standing naked on the front lawn. She was suddenly afraid to speak, and she began to tremble as he slowly bent down. He laid another kiss just below her navel, where she knew her empty womb lay. "I love _every_ _bit_ of you."

A wild sob tore through her throat, and he lay down and took her in his arms. She had lost the most precious thing in the world to her that day, but she knew she had also gained what she had longed for most.


	4. 1918

AN: Speeding forward almost 30 years this time. I have one more chapter left with one more incidence of Robert's presence being unexpected, but I may not have it written till next week sometime.

* * *

_"I think I got so caught up in everything I think I neglected you, and if I__did, I'm sorry."_

Her words had absolutely slayed him. Robert regretted what he'd done, and he'd been prepared to regret it even further in her presence. He'd even been prepared to accept a bit of the guilt that he could sense deep down in his heart. And he had of course been prepared for how weak and ill she would still appear.

What he had not been prepared for was an apology. An apology, spoken in half-whispered tones around a still-sore throat. An apology, as she lay too weak to move in the bed that she had nearly died in. An apology, accompanied by a hand that flopped down on the bed because she was not strong enough to reach all the way to him…and because he had not been brave enough to reach for her first.

An apology, from the woman who had lay burning with a deadly fever while he had nearly taken a maid to bed next door.

And he did not know what to do about it. He had mumbled something about not needing to apologize to him, and then they had sat in silence—a silence during which she had given him several small smiles, smiles that felt like knives in his chest.

"I'll go and let you rest," he had said when her eyes began to close, thankful for an exit.

"No, please," she had whispered, pressing his hand lightly in what might have been an attempt at a squeeze.

"You're almost asleep—"

"Yes, I know," she had said with a sleepy smile. She wanted her hand in his as she slept, he realized with a start. The thought that she took comfort in his presence made him feel almost as low as her apology had, and as soon as he was sure she was asleep, he slipped away.

He did not return that evening, but her words played over and over in his head, especially as he climbed into bed in his dressing room. _Cora needs her rest, _he told himself, _and she'll sleep easier if she has the bed to herself. And you need to rest—surely O'Brien will be in and out all night, waking her for medication. And there may very well still be contagion in the air._

But he knew very well that his reasons for leaving Cora to sleep alone had nothing to do with either of their health. He could not bear to face her, and he certainly could not bear to share her bed.

_I think I got so caught up in everything I think I neglected you, and if I__did, I'm sorry._ He heard her voice again as he closed his eyes, and her words repeated themselves again and again until he fell asleep. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry._

He knew as he awakened that he was the one doing the neglecting now, and the thought gnawed at him throughout the day. Which was the greater sin—to be in her presence when he had wronged her so greatly, or to leave her alone as though she were no concern to him? The obvious answer, of course, was that she did not know he had wronged her, and his absence was only hurting her more. He was not staying away to spare her; he was staying away to spare himself.

Yet it was after dinner before he could force himself to undergo the torture of another visit. Guiltily, he told himself that it would be no longer than yesterday's—it was early evening, and surely she would be asleep for the night soon.

He arrived in her bedroom to find Miss O'Brien standing by the bed. One of the usual breakfast trays was placed over Cora's lap, a light version of the evening meal on top of it.

"We'll need you to eat more than soup to get your strength back, my lady," O'Brien said, in the same gentle voice he'd grown accustomed to hearing her use with Cora over the last several days. God knows he'd never liked that woman, never trusted her, but he could find no fault with her recent care for his wife.

O'Brien picked up the fork and speared a piece of the chicken, then raised it to Cora's mouth. "There now, my lady," she said softly, slipping a hand behind Cora's head to support her as she took the bite.

"O'Brien," he said suddenly, and she started. He was, he thought wryly, actually a bit more surprised than she was to hear his own voice. But he was certain that this should not be O'Brien's job any longer. "You don't need to do that."

"I beg your pardon, my lord, but she's not strong enough yet to feed herself," the maid replied.

"I know. I meant—I'll do it."

O'Brien eyed him skeptically. "If you wish, my lord. But please do ring if she should need anything."

He took a seat on the bed as she left and took up the fork.

"It's all right, Robert," Cora said suddenly, in that husky tone that implied her throat was still raw.

What was all right? His neglect? A dalliance she could not possibly know about?

"Here," he said, bringing a bite to her mouth and unsure what else to say in response.

She took it and chewed slowly. "It's all right," she said again. "You haven't got to do this."

And then he knew she knew. Not necessarily about Jane—she couldn't know that. But she knew something was wrong, she knew he was being devoured with guilt. Earls did not sit on the edge of beds and spoon feed sick wives for no reason at all.

But he heard in her statement her unspoken forgiveness—forgiveness without even knowing what he'd done or whether it was justified. And he fell in love with her again for it.

He leaned over to kiss her forehead before giving her another bite. This time he saw her close her eyes in pain as she swallowed.

"I'm sorry I can't do this on my own," she said as he speared a third bite.

He laid a finger to her lips. "Shh. Don't try to talk."

But she shook her head. "My limbs all feel like they have heavy weights on top of them."

"That may be because O'Brien has you tucked into these bedsheets like they're a straitjacket," he said, earning a wheezy laugh from her.

"She's been very good to me."

"That she has," he agreed, sending up a prayer of thankfulness for his wife's maid. He never would have thought he'd do _that_.

When she had eaten all that she said she could, he took the tray and set it outside the room.

"Are you going to leave now?" she asked him, and he saw the sadness in her eyes.

"No." No, he wasn't. Not now.

He sat down on the bed again, next to her this time, against the pillows. He lifted her up and moved her slightly so that she was leaning against him, his arms around her waist, and she murmured softly as he kissed her cheek.

He could tell how truly weak she was, now that he was holding her—she was absolutely dead weight in his arms. And he was instantly aware that she had not washed since the beginning of her ordeal, and he could smell the sharp scent of the perspiration the fever had drenched her in.

But most of all, he savored the warmth of her body and the slight movement in her shoulders as she breathed. She was alive, gloriously _alive_, and he could not drink in enough of her.

"Robert," she said after awhile, "I think I should lie down now. All I do is sleep, but I'm so very tired…"

With her back against his chest, he could feel the vibration of her speech, and he rejoiced in it. "Of course, darling. I'll ring for Bates and change, too, but don't try to wait awake for me if you're tired."

"Are you coming back?" she said, and he heard the true delight in her voice as he adjusted her pillows and eased her back down.

"Yes," he said, kissing her forehead, "but don't try to keep yourself awake." He knew she'd be asleep when he returned, but he could not bear the thought of sleeping even a room away from her.

* * *

Cora had no intention of letting herself fall asleep alone, and she fought to keep her eyes open in the now-dark room. She had known something was wrong—not just over the last few days, but through the later months of the war. Perhaps there was now someone else—it would not be uncommon—and he welcomed the time away from her that her illness had brought him. And thus she had not fully expected him back in her bed, at least not so soon.

But it wasn't long before she heard his footsteps enter her room, and he slipped in carefully beside her.

"I'm still awake," she whispered. "Don't worry about waking me."

He seemed to take her words as an invitation to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer. "Are you warm enough?" he whispered.

"I am with you holding me."

Had there been someone else? She did not know, and she found she did not care. There wasn't now, and that was all that mattered.


	5. 1924

AN: I'm so sorry it's been so long since I last updated! I got involved with my other fic (A Secret Shared), and it felt more pressing to get that one finished for folks since there was something of a mystery to it, whereas this is sort of a one-shot collection. But anyway, here's my last chapter. I will warn you that while there's nothing graphic here, I think the ending may go past upper T into low M.

* * *

"He thought it. And he was mistaken," Cora said, and Robert could hear that she was holding back tears. But if the tremble in her voice was intended to arouse his sympathy, he thought, she was miscalculating. It only irritated him further.

Cora looked away quickly, and when she turned back, she was controlled again. "Very well," she said. "If you can honestly say that you've never let a flirtation get out of hand since we married, if you have never given a woman a wrong impression, then by all means, stay away. Otherwise, I expect you back in my room tonight." She turned sharply, and Robert heard the door close behind her as he moved to turn out the light.

_How dare she… _he began, almost angrier at her defense of herself. And then he realized the logical conclusion of his sentence. _How dare she…tell me the truth._

For as much as Robert preferred to bury the memory, the deep shame of having brought a maid into his dressing room—while Cora was ill next door, no less—had remained ever with him. Yet he did not believe that Cora knew about Jane, and thus he suspected that she was referring instead to the early months of their marriage. It had been a time when he had spent every ball and dinner party flirting with the Englishwomen he had known and admired for years, leaving the beautiful but strange and confusing American wife whom he did not love sitting silent and neglected, alone in a foreign land with a husband who ignored her.

Robert could sharply recall an evening spent dancing with two English beauties, Rosamund's friends who were slightly older than himself and who he realized were jockeying to become his mistress at some point in the future. He had no intention of taking a mistress—not because he loved Cora, but because he thought the practice an offense to his own honor, as well as an unnecessary complication to his life—but he had still found the implication rather flattering.

Upon their return home to Downton that night, Cora had tearfully told him how sorry she was to be such a disappointment. There was no sarcasm in her tone or desire to induce his guilt—she was quite sincerely sorry that she had not made him happy. Much to his shame, his younger self had made no attempt to comfort her: he had merely stared, stunned at her frankness, and watched mute as she ran to shut herself in her room, weeping.

The contrast between her reaction thirty years ago and his own recent behavior was almost as embarrassing as his memories of his blockheaded younger self.

And so Robert tossed the covers off and stood to make the guilt-ridden walk into Cora's room.

She had already turned her lights out and lay down, and he could see even in the darkness that she was curled stiffly on her side, her back to him, in a way that brought a tight squeezing sensation in his chest. It was a position that he had seen only a handful of times, and it always spoke of a deep, searing pain that she was prepared to bear in solitude.

He had seen it on their wedding night and had attributed it at the time to the unavoidable physical pain that accompanied a woman's first time, realizing only later that it had been in greater measure due to the pain of interpreting his embarrassed, shy fumbling as cold indifference. He had seen this posture again a year later at her miscarriage, and again in more recent years during the war on nights when his irritation with the changing world led him to deliver remarks that he knew would cut her.

And, he admitted, he had seen it weeks earlier when, too embarrassed and peeved at the situation to speak directly, he had used his _dog_, of all things, as a stand in for her in his complaint about Bricker's flirting.

He sighed as he climbed into bed with her, prompting her to say, "Robert?" in a whisper that was almost a whimper.

He grunted in response. He was here because she had shamed him into returning, and, as wrong as he knew it was, he was irritated with her for that, to say nothing of the anger he still felt at her attentions toward the art salesman. He was not here for long, emotional pillow talk.

And then he realized, now that he was next to her, that she was trembling. A second later, he heard a small gasp, as though she were trying to calm herself, and he realized she was crying and had likely been at it since she'd left his dressing room.

He wanted to take her in his arms and soothe her, and he also wanted to roll over and ignore her while he stewed in his own anger. His compromise was to roll onto his right side and wrap a single, firm arm around her waist. He did not intend for there to by anything warm or gentle in his stiffness, and he did not pull her close to him or even speak to her. Yet she somehow took the gesture as an invitation to turn her silent tears into harsh, loud sobs and to snuggle back against his chest. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand was slowly moving back and forth, a soothing caress against her belly.

Was she weeping over the broken state of their marriage? he wondered. Or was it the reminder of his own youthful flirtations? Or worse, a suspicion that his return to her bedroom meant that he had further indiscretions to feel guilty for?

He soon had his answer. "I didn't think you would come!" she choked, and he realized her tears had been at the thought that they might never share a bed again. Had that been his plan? In truth, he had never thought beyond each individual night, but the realization that they had been steadily following Susan and Shrimpie's path terrified him, and he gripped her tightly.

Suddenly, Cora pulled free from his arm, rolling over to bury her face against his chest. "Oh, _Robert_," she said, the syllables of his name containing more longing, relief, and sadness than he had ever imagined could be held within one word. Tentatively, he raised his hand to stroke her hair.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry!"

She had spoken those same tearful words in the entrance hall all those years ago, and they seemed nearly as out of place now as they had been that night.

"Hush," he said, gritting his teeth at the memory. _"Hush."_

Her tears slowly ceased until they were simply lying in silence, but he could tell there was something still on her mind. At last, she asked, "Do you still love me?"

He almost recoiled at the question. It was not asked in a fit of tears; indeed, there was no emotion in her voice. She might as well have been asking if it was raining outside, and it was this seriousness that took his breath away.

Worse was his realization that there were rational reasons for her to ask this question. Indeed, there were enough reasons that he was not entirely sure which one she was thinking of. Did she think he did not love her because of his anger when he'd found Bricker in her bedroom? Or was she asking because of the way he had acted in the months before Bricker, because of the disregard and disinterest the scoundrel had so rightly (too rightly) pointed out?

"Of course I do," he said, wounded—wounded not that she had asked, but wounded that the situation was such that she felt she needed to ask.

"I'm sorry," she said. "That was a silly question—a foolish question. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"No," he said firmly. "You could never hurt me by wanting to be loved. It only hurts me that I have caused you to doubt."

"I don't doubt." She kissed him, gently and slowly at first, until a hunger as natural as breathing began to dawn in them both. The kiss became deeper and harder and then finally frantic, as though they were each other's only source of air after hours underwater. "Make me yours again," she whispered, her lips still against his. He was suddenly in a frenzy to have them both undressed, and then he could no longer tell where he ended and she began as they rolled together, he pressing feverish kisses to her neck, whispering that she was his, his, _his_ as she cried out in pleasure.

When they had finished, she lay with her head on his chest, their legs still entwined, and her long hair, which he had at some point undone, spread across his shoulder. He was slowly running his hand up and down her spine, marveling at the thought that he had, in thirty years' time, memorized every inch of her skin—and yet she was still a wonder to him. She gave the small sigh that he had learned decades ago meant that she was just on the verge of sleep.

It was a sigh that he was determined he would never again pass another night without hearing.

* * *

AN: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing (or even just reading)! I may take a brief break before I do another fic, but rest assured that I will be back before too long. I've recently thought up a new Cobert headcanon that I think may be worth exploring and sharing... See you soon!


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